


Suffer Fools Gladly

by rotaryphones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Sherlock, Character Study, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Spanking, Subspace, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotaryphones/pseuds/rotaryphones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite it being what he wanted, what he needed, none of this came easily to Sherlock. He had learned through John that it wasn’t enough for a partner to say or do the exact right things. Sherlock had to be ready to let go, willing to make himself vulnerable. That wasn’t easy to do. But he was getting better at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you know, just some porn I suddenly had to write. Part two will probably be up within the week.

John settled on the bed, both feet on the floor, back straight, hands on his knees, and leveled at Sherlock an appraising stare.

“Left sock.”

Sherlock reached down to pull off his left sock, tossing it to the side.

“Right sock.”

The right sock followed.

Starting was the hardest part. Despite it being what he wanted, what he needed, none of this came easily to Sherlock. And for the longest time, it didn’t come at all. It used to feel like nothing more than going through the motions, even when it matched his fantasy word for word. He used to pray that _this_ would be the time he felt something, this would be the time it finally clicked, but all he used to feel was cold distance. Detachment came too naturally, and was too hard a habit to break. He used to blame his partners. That is, before he stopped trying all together.

“Trousers.”

With John, it had been the same, even when Sherlock had been certain that this was the missing ingredient: someone he actually liked, someone he cared about. But he had learned through John that it took more than that. It wasn’t enough for a partner to say or do the exact right things. Sherlock had to be ready to let go, willing to make himself vulnerable. He had to work to keep his detachment disengaged.

That wasn’t easy to do.

“Pants.”

But he was getting better at it.

“On your knees.”

Sherlock lowered himself to his knees, soft cock dangling, the only material left on his body a button-down shirt. He looked John in the eye, but that made him feel defiant, and he didn’t want to feel defiant. He dropped his eyes to the ground.

John slowly stood from the bed and began to circle him. Sherlock followed John’s movements until John noticed, indicated a spot on the wall, and snapped, “Eyes forward.”

Sherlock’s gaze locked to where he pointed, and he felt the first stirrings of arousal. Yes, good. He didn’t want control of his eyes. Observing meant thinking, and he didn’t want to think. He wanted to do what he was told.

“Arms up.”

He lifted his arms straight up in the air, feeling ridiculous and trying to tuck those feelings aside. He wasn’t ridiculous, he told himself. He was doing what John wanted, no more, no less. He wasn’t allowed to have an opinion.

He took a deep breath as John snaked his arms around his torso and began unbuttoning his top from behind. The fabric tugged, and John’s forearms brushed against Sherlock’s sides, but for the most part there was no touching. Sherlock tried to put all his focus on being good and staring at the wall.

When unbuttoned, the shirt was pulled up over his head, and then Sherlock was allowed to lower his arms again. John trailed a single finger down Sherlock’s spine, his first deliberate touch of the evening. It sent a slight shiver through Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock’s intent stare was broken a moment later when John came round to stand in front of him, yanked his head back with a fistful of hair, and leaned down for a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed as he appreciated the precise texture of John’s lips and the complete immobility of his head. He still had too much agency in his tongue, too much freedom to return the kiss however he wanted, but soon that would change.

John’s finger circled a nipple as they kissed, then lightly pressed against it. They both knew that Sherlock was ridiculously sensitive there, but Sherlock betrayed nothing but a shaky breath, still holding onto what self-control he had. It was only a teasing motion, anyway; John pressed a few light touches to the nub before stepping back and taking stock of him.

“I’m going to own you tonight,” John said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms. Sherlock didn’t know how he said these things without feeling foolish. He, himself, hardly talked at all during a scene, the sound of his own voice being the sound of logic and dominance and other things he wished to avoid. But John had a way of slipping into a role without feeling that it was a role. Incredible.

Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgement, the best he could offer. John reached into his back pocket and removed a familiar length of cloth. He tied it behind Sherlock’s head, taking his sight, and Sherlock was surprised when his arousal spiked just from that alone. The blindfold was always one of the most effective ways that he could disconnect from his thoughts and connect with his transport, because when he couldn’t see, he couldn’t analyze what John was thinking, and in turn couldn’t analyze how he, himself, appeared. But this time, losing his sight behind the heavy cloth was enough to turn him on. He almost moaned. He was feeling like John’s object already, and they’d barely begun.

Footsteps moved around the room, came up behind him, and Sherlock felt John collect his wrists and press them together behind his back. Sherlock kept them there for him as John began coiling the rope around and between them. Hemp, rough and present, difficult to get used to and ignore. It wound around his wrists and kept going, higher up, toward his elbows which Sherlock tried his best to bring closer together, his shoulder blades back, chest forward. John tugged the rope tight, just enough to keep his posture slightly uncomfortable, but not very. Enough to keep Sherlock from forgetting that his arms weren’t there by choice.

The rope was tied off, and there was a moment of silence, presumably John admiring his work. It was broken by a simultaneous wrench of a chunk of Sherlock’s hair and a hard pinch to one of his nipples. Sherlock choked against the sound that nearly rose from his throat, barely paying attention to how his cock was hardening.

“ _Stay_ ,” John commanded. Like a trainer to a dog. Then, nothing.

Sherlock, comfortable and calm, didn’t pay much attention to how long he waited. There were bouts of silence, sounds of shuffling around the room, sounds of fabric. Maybe the near-silent tap of a finger against a mobile’s screen. Strangely, it didn’t matter. He had a task to focus on, _staying_ , made easier without his sight or the use of his arms to distract him. A low thrum of lust coursed through him as he waited, his mind wandering in a way that was peaceful and not intrusive. It wasn’t quite like visiting his mind palace, but it had a similar meditative quality. At these moments, he didn’t know exactly what kept his thoughts from racing and competing like they normally did, but somehow kneeling here, waiting for John’s return, was never boring like it should have been. His knees began to feel sore against the hard wood, his back started to ache from his careful posture, but it made him all the more eager to keep still. He focused all of his energy on staying.

Sometime later, probably sooner than it felt, when Sherlock had all but forgotten what he was waiting for, John returned. He once again pinched a nipple and tugged on some hair, but this time it was gentle, loving. The hand in Sherlock’s hair stopped pulling and began to stroke his scalp instead, practically petting him, and that’s when Sherlock gave in and moaned low and quiet through parted lips.

“What a good boy you are,” John murmured, taking the other nipple in hand. “You stayed put just like I asked you to. I’m so proud. You’re such a good little boy.”

The words pierced straight through Sherlock’s chest. He shuddered and leaned in blindly, closer to John, closer to his hands and his praise. They were ridiculous words, scripted beforehand, condescending and trite, but Sherlock wanted to believe them. He _felt_ good, felt proud at having done so well. Only a moron could have failed such a simple task, yet Sherlock put that knowledge aside, and allowed himself to believe that he had made John happy. It sent a warm glow through him.

John kissed him again, then said, “You’ve been so good already, I think it’s time for a reward.” He shoved a finger inside Sherlock’s mouth and asked, “Would you like that?”

Sherlock’s answer was a soft hum, and immediate suction against John’s digit. The finger was an implied task, and Sherlock set to it with enthusiasm, caressing every inch of it with his tongue, trying to demonstrate to John, via this one finger, how much he cared. But the finger was removed all too soon, and Sherlock furrowed his brow in disappointment.

He heard the bed sag, heard John’s reassuring voice. “Don’t worry, I have more for you. But you’ll need to come here. There’s a pillow waiting.”

Sherlock shuffled forward, trying not to think about how ungraceful he must look walking on his knees with his bound arms compromising his balance. Grace didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Not when his reward was waiting.

He found the edge of the pillow with one knee, and awkwardly scooted up onto it. It was a relief against his shins, which were starting to ache. Now he could refocus on John, whose legs he could feel pressing in on either side. It seemed that at some point, John had removed his trousers.

A hand took him beneath the jaw and guided him forward. Sherlock felt almost giddy when his lips touched against the head of John’s erect cock, his reward for being good. He opened his mouth and took him in slowly, trying not to rush it even though he wanted nothing more than John’s entire length filling his mouth from tongue to tonsils. He licked just around the head instead, the way John liked, and was pleased when John sighed in appreciation. He focused on the head for a while, closing his lips down around the shaft before pulling back again, hitting each of the spots that he knew set John off. John was now grunting above him, fingers laced in Sherlock’s hair, but only a light touch.

Then, John took hold of both of Sherlock’s nipples and squeezed. Sherlock groaned against hard flesh, going completely still, momentarily lost in sensation. He came to a second later, and realized that in his distraction, he had stopped sucking. He licked against John’s cock with renewed vigor, but John continued to pull on his chest, and it was all Sherlock could do to stay focused. John’s cock was what mattered. He had to suck on John’s cock, no matter the distraction.

“That’s it, good boy,” said John, voice strained, and Sherlock believed him. It was difficult to concentrate on John’s cock when Sherlock wanted so badly to lose himself in the sensations coming from his chest, but he put all of his energy into sucking like John wanted, like a good boy. His technique had gone out the window, and now he was moving his mouth against the cock with no real rhyme or reason, but that was okay as long as he didn’t stop.

The cock twitched between his lips as John suddenly placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and thrust. This was Sherlock’s favorite part, and he could feel himself go almost limp. It was his cue that he could stop trying now. He had done a good job, and now John was going to control things and take what he needed, and Sherlock simply had to allow it. With a tightening grip, John eased Sherlock’s head forward until his length touched the back of Sherlock’s throat. He pushed Sherlock back, and then forward again. This time, his cock was pressed far enough to cut off Sherlock’s breathing, even through the nose, so Sherlock held very still and waited. He tried swallowing a few times, knowing John liked it, but it was difficult to do without airflow. When John eased him back, he was only given a few moments of deep breathing before it repeated.

After being choked a few times over, Sherlock was finally given the chance to catch his breath as John favored bobbing Sherlock’s head in quick shallow strokes. It allowed a steady hum to vibrate through his throat, a sound he didn’t bother to censor. John was panting.

By this point, Sherlock was so focused on being good for John, and being the best fucktoy that he could manage, that it almost came as a surprise when John let out a cry, dug his knees hard into Sherlock’s ribcage, and came in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock sputtered and swallowed as John convulsed.

Then they were both quiet as John eased Sherlock off of him and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock felt he almost shared in John’s post-orgasmic glow, even though he’d had no relief himself, and was still mostly hard. He did something like nuzzle John’s palm, trying to show his gratitude without words.

He heard John scoot backward on the bed. When a foot pressed up against Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock hummed appreciatively and opened up, happy for something with which to occupy himself while John recovered. He licked around and between each of John’s toes, scraped them gently with his teeth, and listened to John’s soft breathing.

It seemed all too soon when John pulled his foot away. Sherlock tried following it blindly, and hardly noticed when he whined in complaint. He could hear John chuckle.

“Aw, poor baby,” he said. His voice was soft and just a touch scratchy. “You poor thing, I know how much you like your mouth filled up. How about I give you a placeholder until I need it again? Would you like that?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what he meant, until he felt something smooth and plastic being eased between his lips. He opened wide, his brain stuttering in confusion. It pressed in, further and further, until it suddenly occurred to him: the lube bottle. He held the lube bottle between his teeth, was laving the base of it with his tongue. It was the perfect size.

“Better?” John asked, cupping the side of his face like a concerned parent.

Sometimes it was difficult for Sherlock to communicate during a scene. He wanted to be used, not acknowledged as an intelligent individual capable of holding a conversation. But at that moment, he was so overwhelmingly grateful to John, he didn’t give it any thought before nodding his head up and down, and exhaling a muffled, “Uh huh.”

“That’s good,” said John, and ruffled his hair. “Now, I think it’s time for your lesson.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock lifted himself to his feet, stumbling on shaky legs, and took a moment to appreciate his position: arms pulled tight behind him, blindfold pulled tight around his skull, and lips stretched tight around the round plastic bottle that John had shoved there a moment ago. The less control he had over his body, the more comfortable he felt. It was the mental control that was harder to surrender.

“Face me, then walk forward,” came John's instruction from somewhere to his left. Sherlock blindly turned and obeyed. He felt it was some sort of test, but didn’t know what to expect until John shoved him, hard. He fell sideways, and the bed broke his fall before he even had the time to worry about his inability to brace himself. An embarrassingly audible gasp escaped his lips. John didn't offer any assistance, just lifted Sherlock’s legs off the ground and swung them onto the bed as well, so that Sherlock was spread out flat on his stomach.

Sherlock sighed as John got on the bed with him and stroked a hand across his bare back, adding just a bit of blunt fingernail.

“You pretend to be so clever and independent,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “But that’s just a lie you tell yourself. You know deep down that you belong to me, completely. You're just my toy to play with.” John gently pushed Sherlock's bound wrists to the side, just enough to expose his arse. He massaged the skin there, and it felt so good, so calming and stimulating all at once, that Sherlock began lifting his arse into it before he was even aware of his actions.

John continued. “You're my fucktoy, and I own your body. That means I can touch it any way I want, I can stick anything I want inside of it. I can hurt it. I can make it feel good.” With a light smack, John's palm came down against his left cheek. Just a light sting that quickly melted into Sherlock’s ever-present arousal, amplified by John's words. “Not only will you let me do whatever I want,”—another light slap to the opposite cheek—“but you’ll be so fucking grateful for the opportunity. Isn’t that right?”

Sherlock nodded against the mattress, but John hit him again and made him answer verbally. “Uh huh,” Sherlock stammered around the bottle, disliking the insecure sound of his voice, and trying to ignore it and sink back into the moment. John’s words were washing over him like a drug, and the more he focused on what John was saying, the deeper he felt himself go until nothing else in the room existed. He was John’s; he was so glad to be John’s. Everywhere John deigned to touch him was electricity.

Even the smacks to his behind, which were still light but were now coming in quicker succession, felt like tiny favors that John was bestowing. “Now, I want you to pay close attention, Sherlock. This lesson is for your own good. You know that, right?” John gradually increased the strength of the spanking, and all Sherlock could do was grunt and nod. He didn’t know what lesson he was supposed to be learning, but it didn’t matter. John would teach him, and all he had to do was be a good boy and accept it.

After a particularly hard smack that just plain hurt, John paused to massage the injury. Sherlock moaned low at the gentle treatment, even knowing that the lesson would begin again soon enough. “I’m going to help you out a bit, because I know this is a difficult lesson to learn, even for good little boys like yourself.” With that, John began prodding a finger into Sherlock’s arse, easing him open and aiming for his prostate. He hit it with his usual accuracy, and Sherlock nearly yelped in pleasure. John must have used spit, in lieu of the lube still lodged in Sherlock’s mouth. But then the next hard slap came to his backside, and the deduction scattered from Sherlock’s thoughts.

John was alternating the now brutal swipes against Sherlock’s arse with gentle rubbing, all the while fingering Sherlock to distraction. Sherlock had no particular fondness for pain, but there was a certain satisfaction in persevering through something just barely tolerable, especially to please John. And the pressure against his prostate was enough to keep the sensations on the edge of glorious, no matter the sting. It was exploding hurt followed by a burst of sharp pleasure, on top of more pain giving way to something sweet.

Sherlock was writhing against the bed, toward or away from John’s blows he didn’t know. He wanted more, then regretted it the moment it came. And through it all, he knew that what he wanted didn’t matter anyway. He was a receptacle for John’s lesson, like a pet or a student, though neither of those metaphors felt as right as when John called him his toy.

The fact was, he didn’t have any precise language for what he and John did together. Outside of a scene, that infuriated him. But here, in this moment, it made sense to place this experience beyond the reach of words.

The last blow made contact, then John was massaging and kissing the skin, being as tender as possible to his aching arse. John flipped him over bodily and began applying the same kisses to his front, sucking lightly at a nipple and working his way down Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock felt loose all over, like a rag doll. Like a thing and not a person, he told himself. A thing with a very sore arse. But the fact that John had done that _for_ him filled him with bliss, gratitude that was disconnected from any logic. He felt present, completely in this moment, with all other moments washed away. He was swimming in aching arousal that just went on and on.

John pried the bottle from Sherlock’s lips, whispering, “That’s it. Good boy.” Sherlock barely had a moment to work his stiff jaw before John’s lips were on him, his tongue thrust between his teeth. Sherlock let it happen, savoring the feel of the kiss.

It wasn’t until John pulled away long enough to order, “Kiss me back,” that Sherlock realized he had just been lying there, mouth agape, without reciprocating. This time he returned the favor, although every movement of his tongue felt weak and sloppy. Still, he did the best he could.

They had been kissing for a some time when John’s hand moved to his throat. Sherlock felt warm fingers below his jaw, digging in. They felt so safe. And they felt even better when John put _just_ a bit of pressure on his windpipe, enough so Sherlock could still breath but just barely. Sherlock went still. His mind and body gave into it, to the knowledge of John’s complete control over his wellbeing. His focus narrowed even further, to just his own labored breathing through his nose, in and out, while John continued to attack his mouth. Sherlock realized he had once again stopped kissing back. But there was nothing he could do about that. He was helpless. And it felt good to be helpless, knowing that John would take care of him.

He was disappointed when the hand at his throat released him, and the lips at his mouth pulled away. Sherlock took a deep breath in, which was expelled in a long moan when John twisted both his nipples at once.

“I’m so proud of you,” said John, still tugging on his chest. “There’s one last thing I need, and that’s for you to come. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Sherlock jerked his head up and down. Anything for John.

He felt John settle between his legs, closer to Sherlock’s as yet untouched cock, which had been hard and straining for some time now. When the warm wetness of John’s mouth wrapped around the head, Sherlock nearly bucked. He’d been feeling steady pleasure for what felt like hours, but now it sharpened to a point, coalescing into something new. It took Sherlock a full minute to notice the sounds he was making, a continuous series of high-pitched whines, like his voice box was also beyond his control.

John continued to work his mouth around Sherlock’s cock, applying the perfect pressure but maddeningly slow. Then, a slick finger began to prod at his arse. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed the click of the lube bottle, but the finger was obviously dripping. It slid into Sherlock’s hole, and for a brief moment, it was too much. The pleasure was so sharp it nearly hurt. Sherlock tensed, pushed through it, and thankfully the sensations began to recede—until John swiped his tongue just so, and the finger inside him _pushed_.

Sherlock choked on his breath as he came. He felt everything release in a rolling, shuddering wave that passed through his entire body and never seemed to end.

Sherlock fell limp against the sheets a moment later, listening to the blood that pumped through his veins. He felt high, his every muscle tingling and loose. Hands gripped the side of his face, and John was there, kissing him fiercely, his mouth damp with spit and come. Sherlock hummed into it.

Carefully, John helped him onto his stomach, because Sherlock could hardly manage it on his own. John quickly untied the ropes around Sherlock’s arms, rubbing at the sore muscles as he went. He also passed a soft hand over Sherlock’s undoubtedly bruised rear. Next came the blindfold. Sherlock kept his eyes clenched as he rolled over again onto his back, annoyed by the harsh overhead light even through his eyelids.

“Bright,” he complained. John merely chuckled in response, and Sherlock managed to crack his eyes open a moment later. The first thing he saw was John’s mouth, quirked up just-so at one corner in an almost smile.

He lay there for some time, happy at not having to move. Happy, also, at John’s naked torso that stretched alongside of him, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.

They were silent for a long time before John asked him, “How was it?”

Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to discuss it yet. Actually, he was rarely in the mood to discuss what they did together, but John had proved to him the necessity of discussion. The fact that this most recent scene had been borne out of discussion was fairly conclusive proof of that. “Good,” Sherlock conceded. “Though that should have been obvious.”

John grinned, and draped an arm over Sherlock’s chest. “I just want to hear you say it.”

What Sherlock didn’t say was that it was possibly the best sex he’d ever had up to that point, the kind of experience he had once considered not only rare but unattainable. He had been so wrong. Thank god John was able to prove him wrong and give him what he wanted. Thank god that Sherlock was finally able to take it for himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Here's some more porn in this 'verse. The second half of it will be up sometime next week.

“I'm going to leave the room for a few minutes,” said John, assuming a forced-casual posture with hands in his pockets. “When I get back, I want you completely naked, on the bed on your hands and knees”

Sherlock swallowed, nodded, and felt the spark inside him as the game began. It always came as a relief, that little spark of anticipation. It was a promise that he was ready for this, that it would work and it would feel good. It was the tiniest reminder, right at the start, that he was connected to his transport after all.

John exited Sherlock’s bedroom, closing the door behind him, and Sherlock scrambled to get undressed. He didn’t know how much time he would get, and he didn’t want to risk John returning before he’d completed his task. Expensive clothes were stripped away and left in a crumpled pile. He could worry about the ironing later.

A moment later he was on the bed and in position, but perhaps he’d been a bit too eager. There were no sounds of John returning, and Sherlock had to wait for far too long, the empty moments awkward and heavy with anticipation. Worse was the realization that he was facing the mirror atop his dresser. He averted his eyes from his nude form, focusing instead on the grain of the wood just below.

Finally, the bedroom door creaked open, and John returned. He didn’t say anything at first. He walked around the edge of the bed, inspecting Sherlock’s ready body. Then he reached out to spread Sherlock’s legs a little further apart, pressed a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to curve his spine, and lifted his head with a single finger under his chin. Sherlock allowed himself to be positioned, and even took pride in remaining wherever he was placed. Every touch of John’s fingers felt weighty and important, and charged with promise.

“Good,” said John simply when he was done. He kissed Sherlock’s waiting mouth while running fingers through his hair. When he pulled back again, there was a length of cloth dangling from his hand in front of Sherlock’s eyes. “I have something for you,” he said. “You want this, don’t you?”

Yes, god yes. Sherlock stared at the blindfold, willing it to go over his eyes and take away his sense of self, leaving his remaining senses behind. He wanted it so badly, and realized with a start there was no reason to hide the fact. Where he would have given a small nod in the past, this time something possessed him to make his answer verbal and clear. “Yes, I want it.”

He could tell his answer surprised John. Certainly it surprised himself. But he was struck with the desire to be a complicit partner in his own submission. He wanted to make it clear that John wasn’t merely doing this _to_ him; he was doing it to himself.

John rallied quickly, and smiled a predatory smile. “Well, you can have it if you behave. Right now, I want to see how still you can be. And if you make me happy, I’ll put this over your eyes. Think you can do that?”

“Yes John.”

“Good boy.”

Sherlock sighed out at the praise, then sucked in a breath as John began stroking one of his nipples. Just light touches that were nearly ticklish, and threatened to send a disallowed shiver through his body. But Sherlock was so still for John, and his breath hitched again as another sharp wave of building pleasure rolled through him.

“I don’t think so,” John admonished. “I want you to make plenty of noise. I want to see how loud you can be without moving.”

John went back to working on his chest, and this time Sherlock openly moaned, letting all his thoughts move away from regulating his vocal chords, and focusing on regulating his body instead. His eyes were closed so he could focus on the sensations, but John apparently noticed.

“Eyes open.” Sherlock’s lids snapped back up immediately, and he was once again greeted with his own image in the mirror. John was beside him, making eye contact through the reflection. “I want you to watch yourself until the blindfold goes on. I want you to see what I’m doing to you, and what you’re going to become for me.”

It should have been sexy, it should have flowed with the rest of the scene. But at John’s words something in Sherlock’s brain came to a halt. He stared at his reflection as instructed, but he didn’t see any of the things that John described. He saw only himself. He saw Sherlock Holmes taking part in a sex game that was just a series of words and actions meant to achieve some nebulous result. He didn’t look like the disembodied ball of desire he wanted to become—he looked like he always did, only nude, and on all fours. Whatever arousal he’d been experiencing a moment ago faded, and he was barely aware of what John was still doing to him as his brain disassociated from his body, all in a matter of seconds.

This was no good. He understood what John was going for, but this was no good, this blasted mirror, and Sherlock knew it was up to him to do something about it, or this would be just like all those other times, the times when he went along with the proceedings but felt absolutely nothing. He hated that what he wanted was so damn elusive.

He hesitated before speaking, caught between the desire to make this better and the desire to behave. “I—” he started, not sure what to say.

John’s hands immediately stilled. “Yes?”

Sherlock swallowed. “I don’t want to see myself.”

There was the briefest silence, and Sherlock wondered if he had broken the momentum of the scene and ruined it all. But then John pet his hair and said, “Okay. Head up, pick a spot on the ceiling and stare at it until I say you can stop.”

Sherlock sighed in relief as he complied. He wanted to explain that he wasn’t acting out of a sense of shame or embarrassment. He just wanted to detach from his ego as fully as possible. He wanted to forget he was Sherlock Holmes, and even beyond that, he wanted to forget he was a person, and seeing his reflection made that all the more difficult. But then John raked blunt fingernails down his back, and Sherlock remembered he could explain all of this later. John’s explorations of his body were becoming more intense, and Sherlock started to whimper, but then remembered John’s instructions, and the whimper widened into something more of an open sob.

“That’s good,” John coaxed, pulling his hair with the hand that wasn’t squeezing him elsewhere. He continued to touch and play with Sherlock’s body, getting him back into the state that had been briefly interrupted. When Sherlock was at the point of continuously groaning, his neck sore and his cock getting harder, John finally said, “Good boy. I think you’re ready for this blindfold now. What do you think?”

Sherlock’s earlier vocal confidence had been spent, and all he could offer as an answer was another low needy moan.

The blindfold appeared within his field of vision, between his eyes and their spot on the ceiling, but John just held it aloft and made no move yet to place it on him. “Once this goes on, you’re going to be my toy. I’ll be allowed to do whatever I want to you. You understand that, don’t you?”

Sherlock very nearly nodded, but then remembered not to move his head. He hummed in acknowledgment.

“And you’re sure you want that? You want to be my thing to play around with, and have no say in the matter? You want to do whatever I say, and let me treat you however I feel like?”

Sherlock wanted that more than anything. His cock throbbed at the sheer promise of it. His breaths were coming in heavy and shaky. And still the blindfold was held just out of reach.

John held the cloth between his two hands, stretched it in front of Sherlock’s eyes, but paused one last time before actually letting it make contact with his skin.

“This is going to feel amazing. The moment this goes on, you’re going to feel twice as aroused, and you’re going to absolutely love everything that I do to you, no matter how painful or uncomfortable or wonderful. Everything I do is going to be exactly what you want.”

It didn’t make any sense, but because John stated it, Sherlock believed it to be true. He wanted to take John’s words and turn them directly into his thoughts. He stared at the interior of the blindfold, waiting, ready for it to do all the things John promised it would.

And then the cloth touched his eyelids. As John tied it tight, Sherlock felt the shift from a person who had been following along to something less than that. He could feel the boundary between game and reality. It was heady, and his knees threatened to buckle underneath him before he remembered to keep them straight, running more on instinct now than conscious thought.

The image in the mirror finally faded away from his thoughts, and all that was left was darkness, arousal, and John.


	4. Chapter 4

There was something simple and perfect about this moment. Sherlock was still on the bed on hands and knees, his arms just beginning to ache from holding his weight. John was petting him again, pinching here and stroking there, and Sherlock was moaning without thought. It was a constant vocalization of the pleasure that hummed through his body, pleasure that—for the moment—didn’t crest or ebb. It just was. And Sherlock was here, right here in this moment, without worrying about what would come next or what came before. He felt good and aroused and that was all that mattered.

"Put your head to the mattress" John decided. Sherlock complied with a sigh, turning his face to the side so he could breathe, hands on either side of his head, arse still in the air.

"Good. Now stay like that."

There was a moment or two of nothing, and then he felt a finger prodding into him. The position felt extra awkward and vulnerable in just the right way, the blindfold amplifying everything, and Sherlock whimpered into the sheets. John’s fingers inside of him sharpened his previously dull, steady arousal into something active, and Sherlock yelped when John brushed over his prostate. Then the fingers were gone, and there was a familiar rubber surface pressing against him. Sherlock had to concentrate as the plug worked its way inside. It always started as an uncomfortable stretch, but when it finally popped into position, it felt like it had always belonged there. Sherlock wanted to rock back against it, which was useless anyway, so instead he strained to keep his position. His entire lower body was ready to crash onto the mattress and rut into the sheets.

Maybe John noticed, or maybe he didn't care. Either way, Sherlock was grateful when John repositioned him so he was flat on his stomach, legs splayed. He melted into the recumbent pose after so long up on his knees, and couldn’t help a small wriggle, stimulating the cock trapped underneath him.

Then John spanked him. There was no preamble, no reason or explanation. The reason didn't matter anyway. As long as John enjoyed it, that was good enough for Sherlock. It started out light and playful, just a few well spaced smacks that soaked into his ever-present arousal and left him tingling. As John hit him, Sherlock let his thoughts settle on the idea of being abused for John’s benefit. He thought about how good he was being for John. He thought about how John was looking after him, and he didn’t have to protect his arse or think about the progression of smacks—they were harder now, just past the boundary of comfortable—because John knew what he was doing, and John would take care of everything.

A sharp sting landed right near the intersection of arse and thigh, and Sherlock flinched instinctively.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” said John. It didn’t, actually, but John telling Sherlock he liked it suddenly made him _want_ to like it, and his brain warred between dread and desire for more of that pain.

John continued to hit him harder than before. Sherlock tried to accept it. A rough smack came down in the center of his left cheek, then again and again in the exact same spot. Sherlock scrunched up his face and grabbed the sheets underneath him in two tight fists. Another blow to the same place left him wordlessly pleading, trying to shift away from John’s hand, hoping that it would hit anywhere but that single patch of skin _again_.

It was at this point that John grabbed Sherlock by the hair, holding his head in place on the mattress, while another hand smoothed over his sore rear. When John spoke to him, his voice was so quiet and close, breath hot against Sherlock’s ear.

“Shh-shh,” he soothed. “You can take it. You’re being so good for me, I know you can take just a little bit more. This doesn’t hurt that much, does it? In fact, you can’t feel any pain at all. Everything feels good.”

Then John hit him again, with what felt like all his strength, and something shifted in Sherlock’s brain. The blows still hurt, but they didn’t seem like pain anymore. John told him there wasn’t any pain, and Sherlock had to believe him. But they certainly didn’t feel like pleasure, so what was left was sensation without name, without the qualifiers “good” or “bad.” Sherlock _felt_ , he felt so much, and that was all. His arse was still being beaten, his erection still pressed against the mattress, and it combined into something overwhelmingly powerful and completely meaningless.

Sherlock floated, confused and stimulated. He might have floated like that for some time. At some point, John stopped hitting him, but Sherlock wasn’t sure exactly when that was. Everything had become a bit of a blur. He felt the twinge of the plug being slowly removed. He felt John lift his hips and place a pillow underneath him to prop him up, but it didn’t occur to him to move his own body to help. He simply let himself be moved. If he was still groaning, he had stopped paying attention to it. It was difficult to notice anything at all other than the physical sensations engulfing him, and even then it was difficult to attach any coherent thought to them. There were noises, maybe—a click, John grunting, some sounds that were wet—but Sherlock didn’t bother to ascribe actions to them.

John was saying something to him, something that took Sherlock a moment to register. “Good boy,” he was murmuring. “Such a good boy.” The words still sent warmth through Sherlock’s chest, but they seemed less like praise and more like a statement of fact. Sherlock was a good boy if that’s what John said he was.

When he felt the new intrusion prodding at his arse, it slowly occurred to him that John was going to fuck him. The knowledge brought him back to himself just a bit, enough to take the initiative to help John find the right position. And then John was easing into him, adjusting, adjusting, until he pressed against the right spot to make Sherlock cry out. John’s slow slide in and out gradually escalated into thrusts. With the occasional hit to his prostate, Sherlock’s hand automatically reached for his own aching cock, but John grabbed him by the wrist and pinned the arm behind Sherlock’s back. Sherlock whimpered, reminded that John was still in control of his actions and decisions.

Eventually John let go of the arm, but Sherlock kept it in place where John had left it. Then he felt a rough hand finally grab his cock, stroking it just right, right at the base of the head, and this time Sherlock was fully aware of his muffled moan as he buried his face in the mattress. John was establishing a rhythm, thrusting and stroking together, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold as he felt his orgasm approach. There was nothing he could do to control it. He couldn’t postpone it or reach for it faster. He was at the mercy of John’s pace and the pressure of his fingers, the heat inside of him building and building.

When he finally came, it nearly took him by surprise. It rolled through him slow and powerful, continuing on and on, his whole body spasming as John fucked him through it.

The last bit of tension left his body, and Sherlock collapsed onto the pillow still propping him up. John continued to fuck him while Sherlock came down, luxuriating in his sated body, not analyzing anything—not just yet, anyway. John came inside him a few minutes later, groaning against Sherlock’s back.

They separated, they cleaned up. Or rather, Sherlock rolled over and removed the blindfold while John cleaned them both up. Sherlock didn’t see the point in leaving the bed for something as dull as wiping off semen.

And then John was back in bed with him, curled up against his side. Sherlock blinked up at the ceiling, feeling John’s warmth and the places where their skin connected, and still not thinking too hard about the scene they’d just completed.

That is, until John asked, “Was that okay?”

Sherlock hummed in response. He hated talking about it.

“It’s just, I was going to do some other stuff,” John continued with that awkwardness that always creeped into his voice after sex but never during. “But you seemed pretty out of it all of a sudden, and I wasn’t sure what that meant. I don’t think I’ve seen you like that before. So I—I just wanted to make sure that was what you wanted, and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sherlock thought back to mere minutes ago, to the time between when John was spanking him and fucking him. He was surprised to find nothing there. Nothing so concrete as memory or thoughts or words, anyway. He had a vague sense of how he had felt, the arousal, the warm glow of being so empty, and he—he remembered the stillness and the calm. He remembered floating. It was an uncomfortable shock to realize just how “out of it” he had been, and he furrowed his brow as he stared at the ceiling.

“Sherlock?”

“I don’t remember much about it,” Sherlock confessed. John might tease him about that later, brag that he finally managed to turn off Sherlock Holmes’ brain even for a moment.

Actually, Sherlock could live with that. Because there was something else that he realized, slowly, as though his thoughts were still running sluggish in the aftermath of all they had done. “But I think…it was what I wanted.”

As he pondered that statement further, he understood the truth of it. He and John had reached something special tonight. Someplace he’d never been before, not through sex, or drugs, or danger. Somewhere calm.

He turned to John and repeated, without the uncertainty, “It was what I wanted.”

John gave a beautiful smile in return. “Good. Then we’ll have to do it again, sometime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When John says, "I was going to do some other stuff," he meant it. This played out in a totally different direction than I had planned. But it's fun when that happens, right? Anyway, this was a whole lot of porn in one place, so I may be porn-ed out for a while. (Oh yeah, except for that other bit of porn I'm working on...)


End file.
